Mistaken Identity

I live in a quiet, four house cul de sac. At least it was until a rental company bought out all the original owners, except me. 

Doreen was the first tenant to move in. She’s a brunette with short, curly hair —kind of like mine. She wears the shortest skirts. They’re like a bandaid wrapped around her waist. Cars appear in her driveway most days starting around one o’clock in the afternoon. It took me a couple of months to figure out she’s a hooker. I keep thinking I should go introduce myself, but given she looks like she could be a bouncer in a strip club, I keep my distance.

Harold came next. He’s small in stature, always wears a suit and bowtie, and reminds me of Peewee Herman. I met him at the mailbox one day. He introduced himself and told me he’s an expeditor. I said, “A what?” He said, “I’m given special things to sell without anyone knowing.” I guess he does alright, given the Rolex on his left wrist and the diamond pinky ring the size of Gibraltar.

The renter of the third house is a mystery. He’s not around much; when he is, he stays to himself. Harold says he’s a hit man who goes by lots of names. I assume Harold is making this up.

Speaking of Harold, I watch him get in the back seat of a police car. “They think I deal drugs,” he yells, as an officer closes the door and the car drives off.
I guess it’s time for me to leave all this behind. I don’t want to. I like it here. But it shouldn’t take the police long to figure out Harold’s not the drug dealer on the street.

Karl and Karla

First published in Johnny America.

Karl saluted the picture of the original Karl and Karla hanging on the wall of his dressing room, then slumped into a tattered, leather chair. It was a ritual he acted out after every performance. He removed his top hat, laid it on the dressing table, and wondered how many times he would get to do this in the future. Circuses weren’t as popular as they used to be. His was no exception.

“You decent Karl?” 

“Decent and broke.” He responded the same way every time his Karla knocked.

She entered the room wearing her favorite black overalls. From experience, Karl knew she was naked underneath. She was accompanied by a hulk of a man Karl didn’t know.

“This is Bruce and his pit bull, Angel,” Karla said, holding onto Bruce’s sculpted bicep with both hands, her fingertips unable to touch.

Karl stared at the big galoot wearing jeans and a sweat-stained, sleeveless tee; then widened his focus to Bruce and Angel. *They could be twins*. 

“I hired him to handle security.”

“Security?” Karl said. He stared out the window at the remnants of the audience they’d just performed for. They reminded him of smiling congregants hanging around after a rousing church service.

“You never know these days,” Karla said. “There are a lot of lunatics out there.”

“We’ve been at this for twelve years and haven’t had a problem yet.”

“Like I said, you never know. Besides, I have a plan to save us from closing down; and Bruce and Angel might prove useful.”

“Oh?”

Karla proceeded to explain her idea.

***

The following Friday at midnight Karl stood in the single circus ring. His hands shaking, he was unsure if they were doing the right thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our first ever adult-only performance. And without further ado, here’s Karla and friends,” he said with a broad sweep of his arm. He figured this show would either save the circus or send them to jail.

As Karl walked backstage, Karla gave him a wink and pranced to the center of the circle wearing a red and white sequined see-thru top and a blue miniskirt. Music started and Karla began to dance in a way she thought enticing. The cheers got louder when she removed her top and skirt exposing matching pasties and G-string. The crowd clapped like they never had for the circus. As Karla left the circle, one of the pasties fell off drawing a louder response. She didn’t bother picking it up. A second dancer appeared and then a third bringing the male members of the crowd to their feet.

At the show’s end, Karl appeared from behind the curtain to a round of boos and thanked everyone for attending their inaugural performance. 

The next night’s attendance was triple the opening crowd. Even the mayor showed up with his wife to see what all the excitement was about.

***

Karl looked at his new bride sunning herself on a nude beach in Greece. He’d sold the circus after a profitable run, married Karla—*finally*, she said when he proposed— and, unlike those fake fairy tales, they did live happily ever after.

It’s An Annual Thing

First published in The Yard.

“Idaho. My office. Now!” Chief Radford yelled.

“It’s Montana, Sir,” I said, as I stepped into the cramped room he called an office. On the walls were pictures of the chief with local and state politicians, all of them holding fish of various sizes. 

“What?”

“My name is Montana, not Idaho.”

“Whatever.” He swiped a set of keys off the desk, grabbed his jacket from the rack, and headed toward the front door. “I got a call from Sheriff Anderson. He needs some assistance. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“But the hot air balloon festival starts tomorrow.” I leaned against his desk, my legs weak. “And it’s my first one.”

“If you need assistance with crowd control, feel free to deputize someone.”

“I thought you couldn’t hire anyone else.”

“I have confidence in you, Idaho. You’ll figure it out,” he said and left. I heard the rumble of his V8 Ford pickup fade away as he headed out of town.

“Where’s he going?” Mayor Josephs said, entering the office and hooking his thumb like a hitchhiker.

“He said Sheriff Anderson needs help.”

The mayor shook his head. “He’s probably going fishing,” he said as he wiggled two fingers on each hand around fishing. “He pulls this stunt every year at festival time. He and I will have to have a chat when he returns.”

The first day went surprisingly well. I assumed it wouldn’t last. It didn’t.

Wandering through the crowd the next morning, I heard a scream and looked up in time to see someone fall from the lowest balloon. Two men peeked over the edge of the gondola, then disappeared.

“Coming through. Make way.” I approached a group of volunteers with their red baseball caps and blue vests. “What we got?” I said to Ed Jacobs, head of the organizing committee. “Pilot here says he jumped out of the balloon after one of the men aimed a gun at him.” Ed pointed toward the pilot’s leg. “It might be broken.”

I told Ed to assist the paramedics through the crowd when they arrived. “Help should be here shortly,” I said to the pilot. I had no idea how long it might be. The EMTs were assisting a woman who fell off the top of a camper. Hopefully, it wasn’t going to be a busy day for flying people.

I turned back to the pilot. “My name is Sergeant O’Connell. If it’s not too much, I’d like you to tell me what happened.”

“Well, this guy came up to me yesterday and asked if he and his buddy could ride with me today. He even offered to pay double. Since my normal copilot — a.k.a. my wife — was home with the flu, I said sure.” The pilot tried to sit up, let out a long groan, and settled back down.

“They were late arriving and out of breath from running. Once they were settled in, we left the ground, and the big guy told me to hurry up and head west. I told him we were rising as fast as science allowed, and that there wasn’t anything like a steering wheel on board. We could only go where the wind pushed us. ‘I don’t want excuses. I want results,’ the big one said. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. I looked at his partner, who was holding what looked like a money bag, and he shrugged his shoulders. That’s when I turned off the gas and jumped out.”

“Do you know what kind of gun it was?”

“A big silver one,” he said.

I heard a noise behind me and figured it was the paramedics. It wasn’t. It was my younger brother,  Michael, who I’d deputized until the end of the festival. He crouched next to me holding a rifle and pointed at the balloon. “Bank manager said something about them running toward the field where their getaway balloon waited.” Then he rose to his feet, cocked the gun, and shot straight up. It surprised the hell out of me when he actually put a hole in the sucker. The sound started a stampede, as the folks who had gathered around ran away yelling and screaming.

Michael and I watched the balloon deflate. The gondola’s speed increased as it came closer. Just before it hit the ground a gun came flying out and two sets of hands appeared.

***

The festival finished with one last flight that night. Afterwards, the visitors and participants started packing up to leave the next morning. Everyone was gone by noon.

Chief Radford showed up for work on Monday, an hour late, as usual, and found me sitting at his desk.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Montana. I hope you’re not getting too comfortable there.”

“Just keeping the seat warm for you. Oh, and the mayor wants to see you ASAP.” He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders. 

After he left, I, as instructed by the mayor, took the sheriff’s “god-awful” pictures off the wall and put them in a large box. I’d have to choose some of my own now that the town council, at the request of the mayor, had approved me as the new chief. “Excellent work handling that incident at the festival,” the mayor said. 

I wasn’t sure what the photos might be. I did know they would’t have anything to do with fishing. Perhaps a series of family shots would be appropriate, starting with one of Michael standing next to his trophy balloon.

A Neighborly Competition

It started four years ago as an un-declared competition between my new neighbor Fred and me. I was never the competitive type, but seeing his Halloween decorations lit a spark in me. The fact I didn’t much like Fred and his “I’m better than you are attitude” provided another reason.

The first year my display was small, just a few plastic tombstones with funny sayings. A single strand of orange lights outlined the tops of the shrubs. The next year Fred and I doubled the number of items and drew the attention of our neighbors and their friends. Of course, the kids still liked the candy best. 

Last year the event turned into a community competition, with the addition of orange and purple lights outlining every available surface on most of the houses along Trippet Street. Yards crammed full of spooky characters completed the displays. Robotic witches that cackled when someone walked by were especially entertaining.

Fred had a final addition he said would make his display the best ever. What was his grand surprise? Fireworks, which explains the three firetrucks, two cop cars, and ambulance blocking the street. It’a also why my roof is on fire. 

Fred spent the night in jail. He, along with the rest of us, didn’t know rocket-style fireworks were illegal in populated areas. It didn’t help his cause that he drank more than his share of beer and bloodied a policeman’s nose. The saddest part for me was Fred missing my display winning the prize for Best in Neighborhood. I guess I wasn’t the only one who didn’t much like Fred.

Francisco’s Last Party

First published in Suddenly and Without Warning

Two Years Ago


Rachel heard the noise from the party as she stepped off the elevator. She’d forgotten the bi-monthly event had been switched from Saturday to Friday, due to Saturday being Christmas Eve. This party was special, not because of the holiday, but because Francisco—his real name Frank—had sold three paintings for a six-figure payday. She opened the door to their condo and felt her shoulders relax. A smile traversed her face. She hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree and began unbuttoning her blouse. She would soon forget her crappy day at work.

One Year Ago


Rachel stepped off the elevator, forgetting the day of the bi-monthly party had been switched, due to the regular date conflicting with Christmas Eve. The sounds of the revelers in her condo were more than she could handle tonight. Work had been a bitch, and no amount of partying would change that. She slipped quietly into the foyer, hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree, and tiptoed to the master bedroom, almost knocking Francisco’s bowling trophy—from high school—off the fireplace mantel. She put on her noise-cancelling headphones and queued up Ravel’s “Pavane pour une infante défunte.” She closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep, wondering when Francisco-—his real name Frank—would finally realize there wasn’t enough money for the rent, food, his expensive taste in cars, and these juvenile parties. If only he’d start painting again.

Today


Rachel hovered over Francisco—his real name Frank—his head resting on the carpet. He’d promised to cease his garish lifestyle after they married. She’d arrived home a day early from her business trip to Los Angeles—before Francisco had finished cleaning up from last night’s party. Now the blood puddle, his head, and the Merlot stain on the plush, grey carpet formed a perfect Venn Diagram. Rachel continued to stare at what might have made a perfect painting for Francisco. Finally, she dropped the trophy on the floor, skipped the eulogy, and walked out of their condo for the last time.